I hate to blatantly steal that from the good doctor, but I can’t think of another phrase that captures the essence of the thing properly.
Here’s the scene: Good friend’s birthday, so the band takes a short practice prior to heading for the bar. The difficulty arises in the fact that, not having a television, I had utterly forgotten about this whole ‘World Series’ thing. Now, I’m not necessarily opposed to sports, but given the opportunity, I will make certain I do not find myself in a confined space with the sort of people who scream at steroid-laden millionaires on television as they chase little balls around the big screens.
So there I am, a pilgrim in an unholy land. This bar used to be cool; it used to be another laid back wasteland for wasted hipsters and the dregs of the college party scene. Now it’s been remodeled and finally reached its true potential and realized the ambition of almost every bar in our culture: yet another sports-bar, where the only line of sight safe from the unblinking eye of the television is directly down at the table-top, coated in spilt beer and errant ashes from nervous cigarettes.
The noise is truly deafening, invasive and oppressive. One table in particular, trying to lead the assembled masses in ball-park chants, screaming at the umpires in between the time it takes pay for another round of shots and slam ‘em back.
It’s funny, because I’ve been wondering where the passion of my generation had gone, and now here it was before my eyes. All these faces; eyes shifty from alcohol, veins standing in sharp relief on necks strained past the point of comfort, coming together in massive orgasmic waves every time the Detroit Tigers performed some feat of athleticism that would bring them one step closer to being labeled the best baseball club of the year.
I could almost care.
I could probably even deal with this sort of scene, but my defenses were down. I was looking forward to a quiet pub, a couple pitchers with friends, subdued conversation and witty retorts. It wasn’t until we walked into the parking lot that the horror of the thing hit me; all these cars, all these drunks seeking cathartic release in the frenzied ecstasy of identification with a sports team.
“Go Tigers!! Whooo!!!”
I really do wish I wasn’t so damn sensitive about this stuff, but as the waves of nauseating images poured from the television; Dennis Hopper hawking mutual funds, Slash selling Volkswagens, Black Sabbath songs being used to sell trucks . . .
Well, in between the waves of anger and indignation I had a thought.
Perhaps, I really shouldn’t be so hard on my ‘peers’, I mean after all this is harmless relaxation, a chance to unwind, a chance to not think. But then a more sobering thought (which of course made me finish the glass of beer in front of me and pour another), when is it that Americans think?
Seriously.
When do we think? When are these periods of prolonged and deep thought from which we need this terrible glut of escapist entertainment to unwind from? Maybe it’s just me, but I have this sneaking suspicion that if the majority of Americans were actually engaging in the sort of deep thought that would require some form of escapist entertainment, most of what is currently available as escapist entertainment would disappear, because the vast majority of it is stupid beyond belief, and any sort of deep thought would make that overwhelmingly apparent and we could no longer suck this contrived and trite garbage down at the appalling rate that we are. If thinking was actually occurring in this country, Paris Hilton would not be a celebrity, she’d have a minor role in some traveling freak show perhaps, but no one would give her an album deal. This walking travesty would not be allowed the kind of national exposure she’s been given.
The Tigers won, and the bar erupted into the sort of unbridled enthusiasm you generally don’t see outside the cheesy endings of Hollywood pabulum. Strangers exchanging hi-fives, honest passion running through the atmosphere like electricity.
It’s not the passion I have a problem with, everyone needs passion in their lives, but why can’t it be expressed in the pursuit of truth? We’re being steadily trained to be spectators at a series of spectacles, each of which passes so quickly it might as well have never happened.
Don’t worry about the fact that humans are being slaughtered across this globe to make rich people richer.
Did you see what (insert celebrity name here) was wearing at (insert pointless awards show here)?
Don’t worry about the fact that New Orleans is still a disaster area.
Did you hear that (Celebrity A) broke up with (Celebrity B)?
Don’t worry about the fact that we are steadily working to make the earth inhospitable for everything but cockroaches.
Have you heard the latest single from (random ‘artist’)?
Don’t worry about the fact that our government has been lying to us for years.
Here you go, watch millionaires swing sticks at balls and scream.
By the time I fled the bar, I felt like screaming . . .
forgive them father for they know not what they do,
and forgive me, for i know not what to do about it